


Angel, Angel, Burning Bright

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Aziraphale and Crowley are Oxford students, Burns, Dystopia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fahrenheit 451 AU, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Novel, M/M, Romance, Violence, Wanna hate Gabriel more?, but not too tremendously graphic, description of which get moderate towards the end, injuries involved with a blow to the head and burning, mention of oral sex, oh boy, then this is the story for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22442623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: In a dystopian society where free thought and speech are both outlawed, and firemen set fires instead of putting them out, Aziraphale is a rebel, trying to rescue books from incineration, with the help of his friend, Crowley, who happens to be a fireman.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 59





	Angel, Angel, Burning Bright

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Aziraphale says, gathering the books that are the least damaged out of the ruins of the destroyed Bodleian Library. He picks through what remains of the tattered volumes, frowning at the ones that simply fall apart, turn to ash at his touch. 

“Look who’s talking, angel.” Crowley tosses aside a few charred tomes and rescues a mostly intact manuscript. “I’m a _fireman_. At least I have an excuse for being out here. You … you’re likely to be killed on sight!”

Aziraphale scoffs but goes about his business.

Crowley hands over the manuscript to Aziraphale, whose arms are just about full. “What?”

“ _Fireman_.” Aziraphale exhales sharply. “I remember when we were little - you wanted to _be_ a fireman. A _real_ fireman. Back when firemen put out fires. Now you’re the ones who set them. Demons … the lot of you …”

Crowley feels splinters of old arguments prickle beneath his skin like angry sea urchins anxious to break free. He appreciates what Aziraphale is going through, everything he’s lost.

His mother’s bookshop was one of the first places to go.

Then the firemen descended on Oxford.

The two places Aziraphale has ever called home up in smoke, and Crowley was there on the front lines pulling the trigger. But regardless of his actions, Crowley isn’t the enemy. Unlike Aziraphale who chose the life of a rebel, Crowley didn’t get a choice.

Crowley’s caretakers aren’t quite as forgiving as Aziraphale’s.

And Crowley understands all of this, understands how his involvement hurts Aziraphale, cuts him to the bone. He’d change it if he could, and every day he searches for a way.

Till then, he refuses to be Aziraphale’s punching bag.

He grabs Aziraphale’s shoulders, nearly knocking the books loose from his grip.

“Do you think I like this?” he snarls in a low voice. “Do you think I want to be one of them?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, accepting Crowley’s anger coolly. “I don’t. But you don’t seem to have balls big enough to walk away from them either.”

“Bastard!” Crowley holds onto Aziraphale a little longer, squeezes his arm a little harder before pushing him away. “Easy for you to say. You have no obligations. No one’s putting your feet to the fire.”

“I have friends,” Aziraphale says, ignoring Crowley’s vitriol. “I have them to look after.”

“Right. That computer major drop-out and his weird-ass witchy girlfriend?”

“You, too, you idiot. Or have you forgotten?”

“I can look after myself.” Crowley goes back to picking through the ashes to keep Aziraphale from seeing the smile on his face because thank Go---someone (not God because where they Hell are they? Not here at the moment, _that’s_ for damned sure!) Aziraphale hasn’t given up on him. Not after this fight.

Not after all the fights.

He can’t lose Aziraphale. If he does, he might as well turn his flamethrower on himself and pull the trigger. He’d have nothing left to make this apocalyptic bullshit life worth living.

Sifting through the splintered, blackened wood of the library shelves masks the sounds of footsteps coming their way.

Crowley and Aziraphale don’t hear them until it’s too late.

“Did you see the way it collapsed?” a voice echoes through the deserted halls.

“Yeah!” a second voice cackles. “Once the flames hit the support structure, the whole thing crumbled like a house of cards!”

Crowley’s head snaps up from the wreckage beneath his feet to look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looks back, frozen with the books cradled against his chest.

“Go!” Crowley hisses, pointing to the caved-in doorway they had come in through. “Go home! Quickly!”

“What about you?” Aziraphale calls back in a hoarse whisper.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Go!” he repeats, motioning with his hands. “ _Now_!”

Aziraphale bounds forward a few steps, but his foot hits a loose patch of ash and he slides forward. His feet fly out from under him and he falls into the pile, landing on his tailbone, sending dust and debris spilling like an avalanche toward the exit, blocking his escape.

“Shit, Aziraphale!” Crowley races toward him, the heavy fuel tank of his regulation issue M2 flamethrower bouncing against his back. “Can’t you do anything right!?”

“Well, _you’re_ my best friend,” Aziraphale grumbles, scrambling to get to his feet, “so apparently not!”

“Hey! Crowley!” the first voice calls, footsteps becoming louder as the young men head for the gutted library. “What the Hell are you still doing here?”

Crowley turns quickly, shielding Aziraphale’s prone form with his bulky gear-covered body.

“I could ask you the same thing, Gabriel.”

Gabriel used to be an Oxford student like Crowley. His pudgy little minion Sandalphon, however, hails from another university Crowley has never heard of before.

Nor does he care.

“I’m just showing Sandalphon here around the old alma mater,” Gabriel preens, clapping him on the shoulder. “This was his first major burn. I wanted him to take a moment to appreciate it.”

“Good for you,” Crowley sneers. “We’ll be sure to get you a medal.”

“You’ll have to forgive Crowley,” Gabriel says, his words infused with the assumption of superiority. “He’s still a little attached to this place.”

Crowley stares Gabriel down. “Forgive me for valuing education.”

Gabriel chuckles, utterly unaffected. “That’s rich coming from the man who claims to not read.”

“Like you need an education,” Sandalphon adds, words punctuated with jealousy. “Word has it you have enough money to buy yourself a small country.”

“Right …” Crowley nods in sarcastic agreement, “aren’t I lucky? Well, if you don’t mind, I’m having a moment here …”

The sound of muffled scuffling can be heard clearly when the conversation drops off. Gabriel grins, the curl of his lips becoming more suggestive the wider it grows.

“Ahhh.” He takes slow steps forward. “Did you bring someone here to gloat over your big masterpiece?”

Crowley holds his breath. From behind him, the scuffling stops, and Crowley knows Aziraphale is waiting to hear this new information …

… the details of how his oldest friend in the world demolished Aziraphale’s beloved Bodleian Library.

“ _His_ masterpiece, huh?” Sandalphon asks.

“Yeah! You should have seen him!” Gabriel takes a step closer to Crowley as he speaks. “He totally took the charge! Came storming in here first thing!” Gabriel shoots Sandalphon a heated look. “I think he wanted all the glory for himself. But his technique sure leaves something to be desired.” He bends over and picks up a thin publication, entirely unscathed except for some charring around the edges. “Take a look at this one! It’s still readable!” Gabriel turns to Sandalphon and gives him a nod. Sandalphon’s wolfish grin takes up his entire face as he reaches for the flamethrower slung over his shoulder. Gabriel tosses the book like a Frisbee, and Sandalphon pulls out his weapon, firing on the paperback as it spins in the air, setting it ablaze. The book drops amid another pile of partially burned books, setting them on fire. Gabriel watches a small bonfire start, then turns venomous violet eyes back to Crowley. “You see? Even newbie here knows how to get the job done. How come you have so much trouble?”

Crowley isn’t about to admit with these two asshats present that he had done it on purpose - led the charge into the library to make sure the books didn’t get burned too badly. That way he could bring Aziraphale back here to collect them afterwards. He had it planned out from the day the firemen were told that the library at Oxford – Aziraphale’s library – would be the next place on the government’s hit list. Crowley would put forth the appearance of doing his job, even being zealous about it, so the group of men who had already begun to side-eye him with suspicion would be none the wiser.

Then Aziraphale might think he was a hero.

But that plan is falling apart at the seams as these two try to pick him apart in front of the only person in his life that truly matters to him – the one shivering at Crowley’s feet with an armful of books, most likely thinking that Crowley is the worst kind of liar and traitor.

None of that matters when out of nowhere, after his attempts to hold it back for this long, Aziraphale sneezes, and the two goons with their flamethrowers cocked seem to suddenly remember that someone else is in the room.

“So,” Gabriel says, fondling the weapon in his hands, “aren’t you going to introduce us to your _friend_?”

Crowley holds his ground, mentally screaming at Aziraphale to keep still.

“I’d rather not,” he says, pulling his own flamethrower off his shoulder and holding it defensively in front of him.

“And why is that?” Sandalphon asks, tilting his head and taking a step to circle around Crowley while Gabriel does the same on the opposite side. “Any friend of one fireman is a friend to us all.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel agrees, taking another step. “Maybe your little friend would like to join us. You know, fight the good fight.”

“I don’t think my friend’s interested.” Crowley watches the two circle around him like jackals vying for whatever Crowley is protecting.

Aziraphale can’t stand it anymore.

He can’t stand waiting to be sniffed out by these two heathens. He can’t stand hiding behind the man he thought he knew so well. Why? Why would Crowley do such a thing, especially when he knows how much those books mean to people? To _him_? Part of Aziraphale’s brain – the part not currently trying to plan his escape - tells him that he should have more faith. Crowley had to have a reason for torching the library - Aziraphale’s favorite place in the whole world.

Aziraphale knows why Crowley became a fireman. He did it because he was forced into it – asked too many questions, hung out with the wrong people, people he thought he could trust. They have something over him – something he won’t admit to Aziraphale. They threatened to turn Crowley over if he didn’t join up.

Whatever it is he’s protecting is worth his freedom, his principles … and his life.

Crowley is right - he didn’t have a choice.

Crowley _does_ have a choice putting his life on the line to help Aziraphale, and Aziraphale recognizes that huge sacrifice, but sacrifices are being made all over. He can’t discredit the sacrifices of those rebels hiding underground, sticking to _their_ beliefs, not giving in, relying on him.

 _Ugh_! Aziraphale can’t afford to be this confused! Not right now!

“You know, we’re a brotherhood,” Gabriel says. “Brothers have each other’s backs.”

“And brothers don’t keep secrets,” Sandalphon points out.

“You’re no brothers of mine,” Crowley growls, releasing the safety on his flamethrower.

“Is that a threat?” Gabriel asks, a predator’s grin on his face – spread lips and white teeth.

“It sounded like a threat to me,” Sandalphon says, affecting the same hungry grin.

“We don’t like being threatened.” Gabriel stops and aims his flamethrower at Crowley. To his left, Sandalphon does the same. The air becomes strained with the threats being tossed about as the stand-off begins. On the floor, hidden from view, Aziraphale carefully puts his coveted pile of books down. He unbuttons his shirt and unzips his slacks.

“I think we should just torch them both.” Sandalphon releases the safety on his flamethrower, a small lick of blue flame dancing from the barrel of his weapon. “Let the authorities sort it out later.”

“Might be difficult though,” Gabriel says. “They’ll need to sift through their cremated remains to separate them first.”

“No!” Aziraphale screams, jumping to his feet, holding his arms up in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t! It’s not his fault! I---I wanted to come here.”

Crowley doesn’t see Aziraphale step out behind him. He can only see the expressions of the two men staring at them, eyes blank and brows furrowed in confusion. Aziraphale comes around Crowley, and Crowley lowers his weapon in surprise.

He’s never seen Aziraphale without a shirt on before.

Aziraphale isn’t exactly what one would call an athlete. He only runs when chased. So Crowley has never seen him undress - in the locker room or anywhere else. Crowley has spent many an evening lying awake wondering what Aziraphale’s body looks like beneath his clothes, imagining undressing Aziraphale slowly in the quiet of his bedroom.

Reality, Crowley decides, is remarkably better than anything he came up with.

But with Aziraphale’s trousers falling down around his hips, Crowley forgets how to breathe.

“What … what the fuck is this!?” Sandalphon asks, livid.

“That’s the big secret?” Gabriel asks with a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Crowley is gay?”

“Ye-yeah,” Crowley stammers, struggling to pull his eyes away from half-naked Aziraphale. “That’s … that’s it. That’s the secret.”

“Well, fuck!” Sandalphon sputters. “That’s barely worth wasting any juice over. Half of the students on campus are some kinda queer, aren’t they?” He powers down his weapon and slings it back over his shoulder.

“Now, hold up, Sandalphon. What were you guys doing in here?”

Crowley wraps an arm protectively around Aziraphale, his hand splaying out over Aziraphale’s bare stomach, feeling his skin jump beneath his touch. “I would think that would be obvious,” he says, pulling Aziraphale as close against him as he can.

Gabriel’s eyes rove once over Aziraphale’s body in a shameless, filthy way before returning to his face.

“What is the reward for burning down library though?” Gabriel asks, his stare driving deep into Aziraphale’s blue eyes. “A blowjob?”

Aziraphale stares back, unwilling to be intimidated by this mindless ox who ransacks houses, bullies people, and burns the only things left in the world that have any meaning.

“Yes.” He relaxes against Crowley’s body, his hands tracing his friend’s hips and down his legs as far as he can reach. “Definitely.”

Crowley, caught in the middle of this ruse, swallows lightly, trying not to focus his attention on the hands exploring his body.

Gabriel leans in closely. Aziraphale can smell the stench of alcohol on his breath and gasoline on his clothes. It’s the smell of ignorance and reckless destruction.

“I think that’s something I’d like to watch,” he whispers, the tang of him growing stronger beneath Aziraphale’s nose. Aziraphale’s stomach turns to jelly but he doesn’t let it show. He’s not going to let Gabriel have the satisfaction of knowing that anything he says affects him.

“Well, _I_ don’t,” Sandalphon balks. “I mean, come on, Gabe. Gross-ville. Let’s get out of here.”

Gabriel doesn’t move. He tries to see through Aziraphale, but Aziraphale doesn’t let him. His hands roam absently over Crowley’s body as he waits, as if he has all day to stand here and nothing better to do.

“Right.” Gabriel backs away, not appearing too fooled by Aziraphale’s ploy. “Come on, Sandalphon. Let’s leave them to it.”

Gabriel grabs the arm of Sandalphon’s thick, fireproof overcoat and tugs him along, throwing a look over his shoulder every five steps to see that Aziraphale and Crowley stay as they leave them, with the plump, partially dressed man still groping at his fireman.

When they retreat through the double doors and disappear from sight, Aziraphale collapses to the floor.

“ _Fuck_!” he sighs, raising a hand to his face and unwittingly wiping ash onto his skin. “ _That_ was close.” He crawls back to his abandoned shirt, leaving Crowley stunned where he stands, all thought of his near death experience dissolving with the memory of Aziraphale’s hands running over his body.

Crowley turns, catching Aziraphale right as he pulls his shirt over his arms and starts to zip up his fly.

“Aziraphale,” he says, watching Aziraphale collect the books off the floor, “I … what Gabriel said … a-about the library … I didn’t …”

“No,” Aziraphale cuts him off, “you don’t have to explain. I think I understand.”

Crowley sighs, relieved that his friend saw through them and their Evil. Aziraphale knows that Crowley is different, always has been.

“You do?” he asks, helping Aziraphale fit the last few books into his arms.

“Yeah. I mean, you need to save face. You have to make them think you believe in all this book burning shit, right?”

Crowley deflates at Aziraphale’s words.

No. He doesn’t understand after all.

Crowley opens his mouth to explain, but a sharp pain to the back of the skull sends him straight to the floor.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale screams, but a pair of thick boots steps over Crowley’s body, pushing Aziraphale backward.

“I knew there was something fishy about you,” Gabriel spits into the fallen man’s face. “I _knew_! I just didn’t have any proof. Now I’m going to turn you in …” Gabriel looks at Aziraphale, grinning to end all grins. “And I’m going to finish the job you didn’t.”

“No!” Aziraphale holds the books to his chest and backs away. “You don’t have to do this!”

“Yes.” Sandalphon comes up behind his friend. “We do.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley groans, trying to rise from the floor, his head spinning, lights colliding behind his eyelids. “Put the books down and run!”

“No.” Aziraphale trembles, nearly out of his skin, but he keeps his eyes on the men with the flamethrowers pointed at him.

“They’re going to burn the books, Aziraphale, whether you’re holding them or not!” Crowley implores. He looks into Aziraphale’s soot stained face, pleading with bleary eyes, saying all of the things with one look that he doesn’t dare say out loud. Whether Aziraphale understands his message or not, he’s made his decision. He holds the books tighter to his chest.

Gabriel continues forward with his flamethrower at the ready. “He warned you.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley manages to kneel, attempts to crawl forward over the uneven mass of decimated books and scorched wood. “Don’t be stupid! They’re not worth your life!”

“You’re right! They’re worth _more_! There aren’t that many left, Crowley! I can’t let them go!”

“Let it alone, Crowley.” Gabriel shoves Crowley to the ground with a kick of his boot. “He’s made his choice.”

“Yeah,” Sandalphon says. “It’s not like we weren’t going to punish him anyway.”

“No!” Crowley screams. “You can’t …!”

“Yeah.” Sandalphon looks from Crowley to Aziraphale with a grotesque smile on his face. “We can.”

“I don’t understand you rebels and your love of books,” Gabriel says as he closes in on Aziraphale, herding him out of Crowley’s reach. “Stupid material possessions with nothing but other people’s thoughts scrawled in them. So I say burn the books and think for yourself! Or better yet … let _us_ think for you.”

“I’d rather burn!” Aziraphale replies.

Gabriel shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

“No!” Crowley lurches forward, but the men with their weapons – and his beloved, stubborn Aziraphale - are too far out of his reach.

Aziraphale turns to run, but he’s not quick enough.

Little in the world can outrun the fire of an M2 flamethrower.

The wave of orange flame that engulfs Aziraphale is hotter than anything he’s ever felt in his life. More than a thousand sunburns, more than the scalding hot water that spits out of his shower unexpectedly in the rat infested basement he’s been hiding in for months ever since _they_ took over – the regime that doesn’t believe in independent thought or free speech, the new government that turned its people into refugees. The fire consumes Aziraphale’s body and his entire world becomes pain.

Against his wishes and all his impulses, the books fall from his arms. Their pages loosen from their bindings and fly free - the blackened feathers of scorched wings deteriorating in God rays of the late afternoon.

The last sound Aziraphale hears above the crackling of the fire is Crowley wailing his name before his mind shuts off to avoid the agony of his body burning.

Then everything goes black.

***

“Aziraphale …”

One word.

That’s the next sound Aziraphale hears.

He doesn’t know if he hears it days later, weeks later, or months later, but it’s a welcome sound.

One of the most welcome in the world to him.

“Newt,” he tries to say. He thinks his mouth moves, thinks he makes the sound, but it turns out none of it is true. He can’t say a word. 

His lips are fused together.

And whatever other damage has been done to his body hides beneath a powerful concoction of morphine and valium, both fighting to drag him back to sleep.

He wants to move his eyes but he can’t open his eyelids. He doesn’t try, afraid that maybe they’re fused shut as well.

If they are, he doesn’t want to know.

How Newt even knows he’s awake is a mystery if he can’t talk and he can’t see.

Maybe it’s his fiancée, Anathema, who knows. She has a sixth sense about things.

“Can he hear us?” Newt whispers.

“I believe he can,” a woman’s voice responds. Aziraphale knows that voice, too. It’s Madame Tracy – a lady that some of the grad students rent rooms from. She used to be a nurse … he _thinks_. He doesn’t know too much about her, but she sure seems to know the ins and outs of the human body. She escaped down to the sewer with her husband - a grisly old man who most of the guys call Sergeant but whose real name is Shadwell. A few young kids from a nearby secondary school - Adam, Warlock, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale - found their way down to the hideout, too. They’d been playing hooky on the day the firemen set their school on fire.

As far as they know, no one else made it out alive.

“Look at how he’s trying to move his mouth, the way his eyelids flutter. That’s not just a nerve response. He’s waking up.” Tracy tuts sympathetically. “It’s a miracle he’s not dead right now. Someone upstairs definitely wants him alive, I’ll tell you that.”

Aziraphale’s body shudders as her words ignite his memory, and a sudden burst of pain along with them.

“Look at him!” Brian cries. “He’s convulsing!”

“Calm down, love,” Tracy whispers. “You’re gonna be all right. I promise. Just calm down now.”

Aziraphale hears whimpering. It takes him a moment to realize it’s his own voice. His throat burns, the sting of gasoline rising up in his sinuses where it had settled but he can’t swallow. But he needs to speak. He needs to know what happened.

Where is Crowley? Is he alive? Is he safe? Did Gabriel and Sandalphon set him on fire, too?

Aziraphale feels a wash of calm flow through his veins, cooling down his body from the inside, settling his nerves, keeping him calm. He slips back to sleep without a single question answered, unable to stay awake in his weakened state, not that he wants to try.

“Yes,” Tracy coos, “that’s better, isn’t it, sweetie?”

Aziraphale’s whimpers stop in his throat without him doing anything. He relaxes, melting into the bed beneath him, and sleep wins its battle.

“We’re going to need to find him more morphine,” Tracy says with a troubled sigh. “We’re starting to run out.”

“We’ve never had anyone burned as badly as him in the infirmary before,” Anathema points out, sniffling back tears.

“We’ll get him some,” Adam offers.

“Yeah,” Warlock concurs. “No problem.”

“Thank you, boys,” Newt says with a sad smile. “Thank you very much.” The time when Newt would turn down their offers for help as too dangerous have long gone. Even if he strictly forbids them to do anything as dangerous as stealing from the hospital, they’ll wait till nightfall and do it anyway. So far, they have yet to be discovered. He prays they never are.

The penalty for stealing from the government (and _everything_ belongs to the government) is immediate incineration.

Newt can’t imagine what it must be like for them. Everyone they know and love is gone. This ragtag group is all the family they’ve got now. Keeping them from helping? That would be a crime.

But Newt’s heart hangs heavy knowing that the majority of the food and supplies they have have been provided due to the bravery of eleven-year-olds.

“There,” Tracy says as the twitching in Aziraphale’s muscles stop. “I think he’s back asleep. That’s best for him for now.”

Everyone nods, grateful that he’s still alive.

Aziraphale has sort of become the unelected leader of their group simply for the fact that he gives them hope. He reads to them, plays them music, performs magic for them, gathers them together and has them put on plays for one another.

Shakespeare is his favorite. He knows all his works by heart.

Recently, he had them perform _Hamlet_.

He threatened them with _Romeo and Juliet_ if they didn’t.

He feeds them plain toast with scrapes of butter but promises them that they’ll eat crepes with him someday, and cheesecake and puddings and pies, talking them up so vividly they can almost taste them in their mouths while they chew stale bread.

Every day, he reminds them what in this world is worth living for.

He inspires them to go on when they would rather give up.

But barely a one of them can look him in the face. 

It’s gone, every distinguishing feature morphed into a single blackened lump of flesh. He’ll never talk again, probably never see. He’ll be locked in his body for the rest of his life … if his injuries don’t kill him first.

“What do we do with the fireman?” Pepper asks. “I mean, he saved Aziraphale’s life.”

“ _If_ you can believe him,” Anathema snaps.

“Why would he lie?” Adam asks. “Why would he risk his life bringing Aziraphale here, knowing what we might do to him?”

“He brought him here because _we’re_ the merciful ones,” Wensleydale deduces. “The government says that makes us weak and stupid.”

“But it doesn’t,” Pepper counters. “It makes us _strong_.”

“I believe him,” Warlock says.

“Yeah,” Shadwell says, “but you know the rules. They’re in place to keep us safe. And the rules apply to us all.”

“You’re right,” Newt says. “I do know the rules. And they do apply to us all. But if he’s telling the truth then that fireman killed two other firemen to save one of us. He’s a hero with nowhere to go. So now he’s a fugitive like us.” He puts an arm around Anathema’s shaking shoulders and hugs her tight. “He stays here. It’s the least we can do.”


End file.
